I am buoyed by the emergence of spring; as the shoots break ground, the pink blossoms on the trees dance in celebration of their sun.
It's that optimism and the acknowledgment that winter has been fought and won. Nature begins to relax from the tight hold of hibernation. The leaves and buds unfurl, relaxing and sprawling like the stretching cats I see from my kitchen window as they lie in the warmth.
You turn your face to the light on spring days and bask in appreciation. Spring is excitement, prospect, and anticipation because before too long, those sunny days become constant, and we grow used to its presence. It can feel like the year begins right now as nature wakes up and displays the hard work it's been doing, dormant and in preparation.
It is an awakening—to be attentive, aware, and mindful. The opposing forces of awakening and dormancy, a sleep-like state, have been on my mind recently.
I dream a lot. They're ridiculous and epic and often film-like. But there is a niggling constant that visits me at least once a week and has done for the last few years. It has to do with water and my son, Josh. It is the threat of danger. He is near the edge, and I can't get to him quick enough as he falls in. There is never the tragedy of an ending; I wake up before that happens, but this situation has presented itself in many forms. A lake, the sea, our local pool, friend’s pools - the list goes on.
The interpretation of recurring dreams is associated with stress, trauma, anxiety, and the need for there to be a form of psychological processing. I think there is a straightforward connection to my role as his mother in the journey he faces, and that while I can do many things, I can't change his diagnosis, and in dream form, this presents that vulnerability. That I can't save him.
Last week, my dream presented a scene: We were with friends and by a lake. I was almost looking down from a cliff at the view, again seemingly too far away, and could see he was near the edge. But our friends were there, too, beside him. As I got closer, I saw our friends in the water with him and having fun.
And Josh, well, he was swimming—all on his own and laughing and alive with his usual joy.
I cannot tell you how profound that dream was or how I felt when I woke. There was no panic, and my heart wasn't racing. Instead, there was peace. As I began to process this new ending, I found its message. He would grow, learn, and succeed on this journey—and so would I.
When we think of spring and see the new shoots, they can often symbolize new beginnings, the chance to start again. However, they also remind me of the work that's been happening during those dormant months, when to survive, there is retreat. That work has been ongoing in the dark depths when sunlight and growth can feel far out of reach. The joy we feel when we look around at the blooms and buds is only achieved by surviving those dark days and cold nights. So spring is a celebration of the continuation, not the beginning. And in that way, don't we all have periods of dormancy and winter that can often last longer than nature's schedule?
It feels fitting that as I surround myself with the physical growth of the cherry tree blossom and as the new green shoots emerge from the ground, I have also had a breakthrough in my dormant state.
There is possibly no better time to dream than in springtime, as we close our eyes and find the warmth in our sky, wondering about the possibilities ahead.
But there is also the acknowledgment that when others see the beauty of our growth, our very own blossom, there has been another season that can be quiet, often hidden, as we wait to find a time when the light feels like a safe space to move towards.
“To plant a garden is to believe in tomorrow.” Audrey Hepburn.